


May Flowers

by thundercrackfic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale can make even English weather erotic, Crowley can do weird things with his tongue, Genderfluid Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hedonist Aziraphale (Good Omens), Masturbation, Oral Sex, Other, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24773395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundercrackfic/pseuds/thundercrackfic
Summary: Crowley raised his head. “That was a capital idea,” he said. “And a naughty one, too. Proud of you.”It was really not a compliment, Aziraphale thought, or it shouldn’t be, but he couldn’t help a pleased wiggle. “It did feel very good,” he admitted.“I’ll remember that,” Crowley said. He laughed. “I never thought I’d have any reason to enjoy England’s wretched excuse for spring weather. Trust you to find a way to make it erotic.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 95





	May Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> It was a blustery spring morning in my back yard, and, well, this happened.
> 
> Aziraphale uses "he" pronouns although his corporation sports female sex attributes in this story.

Aziraphale looked out the windows doubtfully. The spring flowers were pretty but the sky was grey, and the wind _would_ bluster about. Still, he’d been cooped up in the cottage all winter and longed for the chance to sit and read outdoors in the beautiful garden Crowley had made for them. Aziraphale wanted it to be spring so badly, his body had involuntarily gone all woman-shaped and he’d replaced his usual attire with a spring dress. Its fitted bodice held his ribs firmly, like the familiar feel of his waistcoat, and a spencer jacket was as closely tailored as his topcoat had been. But below the empire waist was a soft fall of layers and layers of pale cream cotton that would look lovely among Crowley’s shrubs and flowers, if the Sun would only come out and the wind stop blowing.

No matter how much he frowned at the sky, it didn’t change its mood for him. He sighed and picked up a tartan wool blanket as a concession to the weather and stepped outdoors. After a few minutes of fussing he had settled himself in his chair, book in hand, cocoa keeping obligingly at sipping temperature on a side table, blanket across his knees.

He felt cozy enough, but the wind kept touching him. It blew up the garden in random gusts. A rustle in the trees would presage a puff of wind poking under the blanket, fanning the pages of his book. The wind was too insistent and mercurial to be called a breeze. It was mischievous, lying quiet for a few minutes until he’d nearly forgotten it, then approaching him from an unexpected direction, making him shiver. It ran fingers through his curls, brushed the fuzz of hair on his exposed cheeks and the nape of his neck, and – despite all his layers – found ways in between cloth and skin. It was maddening. Almost demonic.

Aziraphale felt a moment of pique. Was it demonic? But as he stretched his senses out, he found Crowley was still lazing about in their bed, not fully asleep but not up yet, either. This mischievous wind wasn’t anything occult, it was just spring in England.

It was fun to imagine, though. Crowley making the wind touch Aziraphale like that. It would be like him to walk that line between annoying and arousing. Teasing, you might call it, although Aziraphale hated being teased unless there was satisfaction at the end of it. Which Crowley would make sure of. He would magic fingers of wind into Aziraphale’s collar, into the cuffs of his jacket, up his skirt –

He realized that he’d unintentionally loosened his collar and cuffs to let the breeze do what he was imagining. But his airy skirts were smothered by the heavy blanket. Aziraphale chuckled, imagining Crowley’s exasperation at the frumpy wool. “Can’t reach you, angel,” Aziraphale imagined his fantasy Crowley grumbling.

Aziraphale laid a strip of silk ribbon into the book and set it aside, giving up on reading, giving over to indulgence in the fantasy. He reached beneath the blanket in his lap, pulling up the hem of his skirt and petticoat, pushing the blanket down to his knees, and using a very small miracle to wish his bloomers away. Then he leaned back in the chair and relaxed, waiting for that mischievous wind.

The trees rustled, making Aziraphale inhale with anticipation. A gust came from his right side, caressing his cheek, curving into his collar, and eddying into the space between his exposed thighs. He’d made a cunt when he dressed, to coordinate properly of course, and it was already wet with his fantasy. The wind on wet skin was chilly, a delicious contrast to the warmth under the blanket that still covered his knees. The breeze died and Aziraphale let out a long breath.

Another warning rustle of leaves and another gust touched him, sliding across his folds, making them cold. He throbbed under that caress, gasping involuntarily. It was so good, but he needed more. With one hand he reached between his thighs, a finger on each side of the loose fold of skin that covered the center of his pleasure. He pressed and pulled his fingers up, lifting the hood and exposing his clit to the garden.

The wind made him wait. Then it puffed again, touching him there, and that felt good, but it would be better if it were wet so that the breeze would chill.

With his other hand, he dipped a finger inside. His finger was very cold, and that was a wonderful sensation, the contrast of his heat warm around his finger and the chill of his finger buried inside him. He withdrew it so he could press in again with two fingers, shivering at the cold thrust inside him, at the wet heat around him. He heard that anticipatory rustle in the trees again and withdrew his fingers, swiping them across his clit to wet it, and was just in time to feel the next gust whip across his wet skin. His clit chilled instantly and it was the most delicious sensation.

He lost himself in those sensations, playing with the wind, using hands to warm himself up when he got too chilled, using fingers to open himself up and let the wind touch him everywhere, imagining it was Crowley making the wind tease him.

At length, he began to feel done with the playing. However much he fantasized, it wasn’t Crowley, and Aziraphale realized he was getting bored with the game. It had been awfully fun while it lasted; time to finish up and return to reading.

But Aziraphale found he couldn’t finish. He had worked himself up to a plateau of sensation and, try as he might with pushing and rubbing fingers, he could not bring himself over the edge. He let out a moan of frustration and dropped his hands, oversensitive and unsatisfied.

A firm hand gripped his shoulder. “Why stop now, angel?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, aiming for stern, but landing on desperate. “How long have you been watching?”

“Since a few minutes after you miracled your underthings away. Had to see what you were up to.” He tsked. “Can’t say I expected to find you having such a brazen wank, though.”

“Oh, Crowley. Can you help me?”

“Well, when you ask so nicely,” Crowley purred, slinking around the chair to face him, running a finger lightly down his arm. He gazed at Aziraphale, delighted. “Look at you. Right mess you’ve made of yourself. A picture of debauchery.”

Aziraphale whimpered.

“Hush,” Crowley said. “Let’s get rid of this.” He lifted the blanket and quickly rolled it into a bundle that fell to the ground directly underneath his knees. It was all very smooth, Aziraphale thought, and then thought went right out the window as Crowley leaned in and delivered a swipe with his flat tongue across Aziraphale’s clit. It felt like an electric shock and he yelped.

“Too much?” Crowley asked.

“It’s—I’m—I may have spent too long—”

“Shhhh,” Crowley hissed. “Just relax and let me try.”

Aziraphale tried his best to relax. Crowley leaned in again and opened his mouth. This time his tongue was forked, and its twin tips slid on either side of Aziraphale’s oversensitive clit, not touching it, just delivering the barest tugs to it as his tongue lapped at adjacent skin.

“That’s all right,” Aziraphale said, managing to relax a little more.

Crowley licked slowly, occasionally leaving off to tour his other folds with his tongue, returning to the apex to run his tongue-tips on either side of the hood. Then he paused his licking and kissed him tenderly instead. “May I?” he asked, two fingers at Aziraphale’s opening.

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale breathed, his hips lifting. Crowley slowly pressed his long fingers inside and his fingers were cold, too, but not for long. Another gust of wind came just then, touching Aziraphale’s clit, and he shuddered and throbbed.

“Oh! _That’s_ what’s got you all riled up! Naughty angel,” Crowley chided, but Aziraphale could hear the broad smile in his voice.

“I imagined it was you,” Aziraphale gasped. “Making the wind do that. The wicked teasing.” Another puff of wind arrived just then, illustrating exactly how aroused the fantasy had made him. Crowley dragged fingers out and pushed them back inside him, maddeningly slow. When Aziraphale could use his voice again, he said: “but I waited too long and now I can’t – I can’t –”

“S’alright, angel, I have you now.” And Crowley dove in with lips, tongue, and fingers, rapid and strong. Aziraphale needed the stimulation if he was ever going to come but it was very nearly too much. He felt desire fighting with oversensitivity and moaned, hot and frustrated, ready to give up, and then there was another finger pressing at his anus, poking just a little inside, and that was what he’d needed, and the climax finally arrived, crashing over him in waves.

Crowley stopped almost immediately, for which Aziraphale was grateful, knowing that the sensation would rapidly turn unpleasant, but it still felt like a loss, even as he gasped for breath in his overstimulated state. Crowley quickly snaked an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and hugged a quivering thigh with the other, laying his head on Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale felt aftershocks coursing through him and he knew that Crowley could feel the muscle contractions against his cheek.

As his breathing quieted, another gust of wind came and stroked him, making him shudder. Crowley raised his head. “That was a capital idea,” he said. “And a naughty one, too. Proud of you.”

It was really not a compliment, Aziraphale thought, or it shouldn’t be, but he couldn’t help a pleased wiggle. “It did feel very good,” he admitted.

“I’ll remember that,” Crowley said. He laughed. “I never thought I’d have any reason to enjoy England’s wretched excuse for spring weather. Trust you to find a way to make it erotic.”

Aziraphale pushed at the hem of his skirts, and Crowley helped him settle them in place. Aziraphale folded his hands primly in his lap, which was now demurely covered in many layers of fine fabric. “It’s all because of you, being so tempting all the time. Wicked creature.” And he looked at Crowley from under his lashes.

Crowley laughed, throwing his head back, and the Sun chose that moment to come out from behind a cloud, lighting up the spring greens of the garden. Aziraphale had never felt happier or more satisfied.


End file.
